


What's a Soulmate?

by styliamson



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-15
Updated: 2017-03-15
Packaged: 2018-10-05 17:44:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10313627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/styliamson/pseuds/styliamson
Summary: “What mark?” He asks again, once he regains function, turning to Zayn. Zayn finally looks up from his sketchbook, eyebrows knitted together.“You know, Lou. The Marks. Those little things on everyone’s wrists.” Zayn explains, gesturing to his own wrist as if it’ll clear things up. Louis blinks. Zayn giggles quietly. “Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed them?”Louis blinks again. He has noticed the marks, as a matter of fact.It’s just never really concerned him before. He’s never really thought to question it or think anything further beyond, “wow, she has a cool mark,” or, “his mark is weird looking."Until now.Now it’s like, It’s nearly impossible not to pay them attention, with everyone comparing them almost constantly. He’d always noticed it really, but didn’t think it was weird or anything out of the ordinary that he didn’t have one until Perrie reacted like that. And now Louis’ mind is like a jungle gym, a tangle of ropes and messes and ladders and why has he never thought anything of this before?Or, a Soulmates AU where everyone has marks leading them to their soulmate except for Louis.





	

**Author's Note:**

> SO, originally i wasn't going to post this but i've been working on this for a while so i want to get it out there. this is just the first chapter but i will post more in the future! i'm hoping it will only be ten chapters, but that's subject to change. please enjoy, and thanks for reading.
> 
> twitter: dontalktomysons  
> tumblr: donttalktomysons.tumblr.com

Louis is seven years old the first time he hears about The Marks.

He’s on the recess field, determinedly kicking around a small football. He’s clumsy (granted, he is only seven years old), stumbling awkwardly over his own underdeveloped feet, struggling to keep the ball between his ankles as he dribbles down the dewy grass. But he’s been getting better, he knows, because his father tells him so whenever they play together. And Louis’ dad is _amazing_ – courageous and strong, the best footie player Louis has ever seen, not to mention he always knows the answers to the Sunday crosswords. He doesn’t even have to _google_ them.

So basically, when Louis’ dad compliments him, he holds it close to his heart. After all, if the greatest man in the world is telling Louis he’s good at something, he must be pretty darn good. Louis smiles, then bites his lip resolutely, kicking the ball faster, eager to teach himself some new skills he can show his dad next Saturday morning when they play.

He must overestimate his skill, which isn’t all that shocking considering he’s pretty fantastic, because one second the ball is skidding down the field right in front of him and the next it’s tumbling straight into the bushes off field. Louis sighs, because this will really hinder his progress, but he jogs quickly over to the brush, because he’s strong and brave just like his dad, and he can heroically fetch a lost ball. He pushes the branches aside, peeking his head between them and shoving his way into a clearing.

”What does _yours_ look like?” He hears a quiet, distant voice ask, curiosity coloring his tone. Louis doesn’t pay much mind to it. His mom always told him it was rude to eavesdrop, so he tunes it out, picking up his ball and turning to head back to the field.

“Holy cow! That’s super cool,” says the first voice, followed by a loud gasp. Louis stops in his tracks and turns back around slowly, trying to locate where the voices are coming from. He knows his mom would probably be disappointed, but whatever they’re looking at is super cool, and Louis never misses an opportunity to be a part of something super cool. He _is_ something super cool, after all.

Louis thinks it’s coming from beside him so he turns, and there’s another bush right there. He pushes a few leaves aside and pokes his head through.

There’s a boy and a girl sitting side by side, their backs to Louis and faces ducked close together. He feels sort of like an intruder, and he knows his mom would definitely not approve, but he’s too curious too spare it more than a passing thought.

“Let me see yours!” The girl squeals, grabbing the boy’s hand and flipping it over. She gasps quietly, tracing over his wrist carefully with the fingers of her other hand. Louis can’t see clearly enough to know what they’re talking about, but it doesn’t seem that cool. Definitely not cooler than him and his football.

She spends a few minutes just caressing his wrist with her finger. It seems like they’re done talking, and the feeling of intruding is beginning to become a bit overbearing, so Louis backs up and runs back to his field, ball clasped between his tiny palms. He huffs, a bit frustrated and let down, considering he was expecting something super cool. He shrugs it off, and drops the ball back onto the field.

He never thinks about it again.

==

Three months later, Louis sees his first Mark.

He’s the king of the field, dribbling the ball faster than any of the other kids. He grins smugly, weaving skillfully through crowds that are trying to steal the ball from him. When he looks over his shoulder, laughing at the other team being left in his dust, he collides harshly with something in front of him.

He tumbles to the ground ungracefully, his limbs getting tangled with long, thin ones that definitely aren’t his own. There’s a leg flung over his thigh, a heel digging into his back, and an arm in front of his face, palm spread open and wrist turned upward. There’s a tiny crescent moon drawn on the middle of the boy’s wrist. Louis squints, and he would probably tilt his head too if he wasn’t in a tangled heap on the grass, and stares at it for a bit. Why would anyone draw on themselves like that? It doesn’t look bad necessarily, not at all really, but it’s a strange thing to do. Pen is made for paper, not skin.

Before he has a chance to ask, though, the boy manages to untangle himself and stand. He offers Louis a hand, which he gladly takes, and helps him up. Louis dusts off his shirt and his legs, inspecting himself for any grass stains or dirty marks that his mom would have his head for. Once he deems himself clear, he nods once, and gets right back into the game.

He forgets about the boy’s wrist immediately, too.

==

Louis is ten years old when he meets Zayn.

Zayn is just – Zayn is incredible, to put it lightly. He’s quiet, but when he does talk he’s a hoot and a holler, always making Louis laugh with his dry humor that contrasts so perfectly with Louis’ classic, practical jokes.

He can also draw like nobody Louis’ ever seen, always carrying around a little sketchbook filled with masterpieces. Louis asks Zayn approximately eight and a half times every day to draw a sketch of Louis, and each time Zayn refuses, some excuse like he’s “not good enough,” which Louis doesn’t believe for one second. Zayn is good enough for anything. Louis thinks he’s possibly cooler than himself.

Which is a pretty freaking big deal, considering how cool Louis is.

Zayn doesn’t have anything on his wrist, not like any of the other kids do. It makes Louis feel a little better, a little less out of place, knowing he’s not the only one without a squiggly shape drawn into his skin.

Since he saw that first crescent moon on the boy, he’s been noticing all sorts of shapes on all sorts of kids, and adults too, some solid black and some just an outline. He doesn’t pay much attention to it, because he doesn’t have one, and neither does his best friend, so it can’t really be all that important. His mum and his sisters don’t have them either, so it doesn’t really concern him.

Until it does.

Recess has always been Louis’ favorite time of day, kicking around a football and competing against the other kids in the field. Although lately, he has been more frequently sitting quietly with Zayn up against the brick wall of the school, just watching him sketch. Zayn says he doesn’t mind, so Louis just tips his head on Zayn’s shoulder, watches the motion of his hand sweeping across the paper. Louis thinks it’s really freaking cool.

No one usually bothers them when they’re like this, just peacefully sitting, minding their own business. Except today is apparently different, because a little girl with shocking blue eyes and bright blonde curls comes bounding up to them and plops down right in front of Zayn. He looks up a bit, smiles softly and says “Hi, Perrie,” before returning to his sketchpad. Louis offers her a small wave. She smiles at both of them, and then abruptly grabs Louis’ hand and flips it over. Louis freezes. Perrie squints and moves her face closer, and Louis can feel the small puffs of her breathing against the thin skin of his wrist. She lifts it up and flips it over, inspecting the back of his arm, then turning it palm up again. Her face falls and her nose scrunches.

“Where’s your Mark?” She asks loudly, dropping his right hand and grabbing his left. She flips that one over too, and sees there’s nothing there either. She tilts her head in confusion.

“Where’s your Mark?” She asks again, a bit louder this time, looking up at him. Louis can do nothing more than gape at her, jaw opening and closing like a rainbow trout.

“What mark?” He asks. Perrie blinks at him then turns to Zayn.

“Zayn, can I see your mark?” Perrie asks politely, reaching for his left hand that isn’t being used to draw.

“Don’t have one either,” he mumbles, still not looking up from his sketch. Perrie gasps.

“You’re _lying_ ,” she accuses. Zayn shrugs one shoulder.

“I’m not lying.” He confirms. Perrie huffs and pouts, standing up and brushing off her skirt.

“I’m going to talk to Mr. C.,” she mutters, and walks away. Louis is still frozen, arm stretched out and the back of his hand resting on the grass where Perrie dropped it.

“What mark?” He asks again, once he regains function, turning to Zayn. Zayn finally looks up from his sketchbook, eyebrows knitted together.

“You know, Lou. The Marks. Those little things on everyone’s wrists.” Zayn explains, gesturing to his own wrist as if it’ll clear things up. Louis blinks. Zayn giggles quietly. “Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed them?”

Louis blinks again. He has noticed the marks, as a matter of fact.

It’s just never really concerned him before. He’s never really thought to question it or think anything further beyond, “wow, she has a cool mark,” or, “his mark is weird looking.”

Until now.

Now it’s like, It’s nearly impossible not to pay them attention, with everyone comparing them almost constantly. HE’d always noticed it really, but didn’t think it was weird or anything out of the ordinary that he didn’t have one until Perrie reacted like that. And now Louis’ mind is like a jungle gym, a tangle of ropes and messes and ladders and why has he never thought anything of this before?

 Why does everyone have these peculiar little shapes on their wrists? What purpose do they serve? Why does everyone call them, “The Marks,” capital letters and everything? Why won’t his mom just tell him what they are when he asks, instead of giving him the classic mom-response, “you’ll find out when you’re older, sweetie”?

Louis doesn’t want to say he feels _jealous_ , per se, but he does feel rather left out. And maybe a bit jealous.

Maybe more than a bit jealous.

He just doesn’t understand, that’s all. He’s Louis Tomlinson, coolest kid in the school. He’s not supposed to be different.

“Lou?” Zayn asks quietly, and Louis realizes he must’ve zoned out. He focuses on Zayn again, looking down at his wrist.

“Why does everyone have these marks besides me?” He pouts, crossing his arms across his chest. Zayn laughs softly.

“Mate, I don’t have one either.”

Louis scrunches his nose, then smiles again, big beam lighting up his face. Zayn is awesome. If Zayn, who’s just as cool as him – and possibly cooler – doesn’t have a mark, there can’t be anything wrong with it. Maybe it’s just the cool kids who don’t have marks. Louis puffs his chest out a little.

“So what are the marks, then?” Louis asks, because curiosity always gets the better of him. Zayn just shrugs.

“Dunno, mate. Mum won’t tell me. Neither will the teachers. Keep telling me to ‘wait ‘til I’m older,’” he mimics, finger quotes included. Louis nods, understanding.

“Adults suck,” Louis says.

Zayn hums in agreement.


End file.
